  The seeming saint with long drawn face, Who thinks that he has so much grace He should be throned on highest place To which saints may aspire, And yet, when dealing with a man, Will use some vicious, subtle plan By which a vantage he may gain, Is character I can't admire. The zealot who thinks God has given A delegated power from heaven To him, to see that men are driven To escape a burning fire, Yet draws no souls by filial love, But deems the world can never move By holy influence from above, Is character I can't admire. The man whose prayer is long and loud, Whose knee is bent, whose head is bowed— With worldly goods richly endowed With all man can desire, Yet sees a worthy brother fall, Without responding to his call For aid to soothe starvation's gall, Is character I can't admire. The teacher who devoid of heart, Unskilled in pedagogic art, With looks and acts severely tart Would loathesome tasks require, Of pupils dulled by daily grind, Or stirred by words unjust, unkind, Which leave a canker in the mind, Is character I can't admire. The mother who aspires to be A beacon light of charity, Regardless of the nursery Whereof she seems to tire, Who thinks her husband needs no care, But drives him wildly toward despair By meagre love, and frigid fare, Is character I can't admire. The husband who spends days and nights In low resorts, mid brawls and fights, In which his heart greatly delights, But stops not to inquire, If wife and child have needed care, Or from his draughts he may not spare The pittance they should justly share, Is character I can't admire, The millionaire who doth obtain His wealth by brawn and muscle strain Of those he poorly doth maintain Through scanty meed and hire, A recompense whereby may live In health, the man who makes him thrive Is character I can't admire. The man who feels no poignant ruth At the dethronement of a truth, That to old age from tender youth Has felt no fervid ire When hate and envy swayed the tongue, And took no pride in checking wrong, No matter where it may belong, Is character I can't admire. The man who lives for self alone, The man whose truth and honor 've flown, The man who hears a fellow groan Or sees a soul expire, And lifts no friendly hand to aid, No sympathy of soul betrayed, No fevered brow with balm allayed, Are characters I can't admire. |
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